


some kind of bro code thing

by nysscientia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Future Fic, Multi, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nysscientia/pseuds/nysscientia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Allison Argent,” he cries, “please don’t tell me you’re trying to convince me that Scott had a crush on me.”</p>
<p>“Well, we made out for like two hours after that,” she shrugs, “so, not exactly.  More like he was–”</p>
<p>“If the next word you say is ‘curious,’ I’m dumping this bottle over your head.”  Stiles waves the bottle demonstratively and she snatches it out of his hands.  What Drunk Allison lacks in cunning, she makes up for in catlike agility.</p>
<p>“Like you never wondered,” she says, taking a swig straight from the bottle even though her tumbler is still full.</p>
<p>“I was sixteen and surrounded by superhumanly beautiful shirtless people,” Stiles answers.  “I wondered about literally everything.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	some kind of bro code thing

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone in this fic is overage and sober when consenting to sex.

Stiles brings an extra bottle of whiskey. Allison’s taken to buying nicer stuff since she and Scott moved into their new place. Which is great and all, but it’s been cold as tits lately, Derek has been busy constantly since the neighboring packs broke their truce, and Stiles wants to get slizzard. There are some things he can bitch about with Allison that no one else really gets. Exhibit A:

“–and I know every family’s bizarro in their own way, of course, but after I told them all about Scott my Aunt Mona congratulated me on my _alternative lifestyle_.”

Stiles laughs so hard he falls off the arm of the sofa and ends up halfway in Allison’s lap, because the phrase ‘alternative lifestyle’ has been hilarious to him ever since his dad confused his ‘werewolves are real’ speech with his ‘coming out’ speech during freshman year. And also partly because there may be some correlation between whiskey ingestion and Stiles’ balance. Studies are inconclusive.

They commiserate for awhile about how young adult novels prepared them for the angst of having werewolf boyfriends but not for the excruciating discomfort of their families’ attempted support, and the conversation meanders around to Scott standing at Stiles’ side through even their awkwardest of awkward teen years.

“It was the least climactic coming-out experience I could’ve had,” Stiles says, staring up at Allison. She’s absently stroking his forehead like he’s a weird buzzcutted cat. From where he’s laying, the light from Scott’s Ikea lamp diffuses around her head, drenching her curls in white gold. The angel thing kind of makes more sense; maybe he should stop punching Scott every time he calls her celestial or whatever.

“So you know how you two always joke that he knew before you did?” Allison asks, eyes dancing. Stiles jerks upright. Her expression is no less sinister from right-side-up.

“He didn’t know.”

She does her terrible dimply smirk, the one that gets her free coffee at the bookstore, and Stiles takes the angel thing back. She’s a demon. She’s a devil from the foulest circles of Hades.

“He had no idea!” Stiles groans, lurching away from her and picking up the bottle of Jack from the coffee table. She slips it out of his hands and fills her own glass before topping his off. She gets whiskey all down his knuckles, but he doesn’t even notice until he starts dripping onto the table, so he figures he can’t point fingers. Maybe literally can’t.

“He thought it was some kind of bro crode– co bro– _bro code_. Thing. Some kind of bro code thing you didn’t talk about.”

She’s grinning, because apparently ripping Stiles’ world off its axis is amusing for her. Stiles slumps down to the floor next to the coffee table, flops his crossed arms onto it, buries his face in the crook of his elbow.

“Did he tell you before I did?” Stiles asks, voice muffled by his sleeves. He eyes her from over the plaid.

Allison has the decency to look kind of contrite while she’s swigging her whiskey.

“After you confirmed things officially for him. He was all excited for you, I think he didn’t even realize.” Then she bursts out laughing.

“He made this face, like–” She seems to realize that no words can adequately describe Scott McCall’s expressions, so she does an impression that reminds Stiles of a sad cartoon animal.

“Thoughtful puppy face, I’m familiar with the expression,” Stiles confirms. “I call it ‘canine scholar.’”

This, too, is hilarious to Allison. Not even her badassery protects her from inebriation.

“He said he always figured you liked dudes, but he couldn’t confirm because you’d never actually hit on him and he didn’t want to make assumptions.” And then she pauses expectantly, lower lip curled between her teeth and her eyes wide, because Drunk Allison has no poker face. Stiles widens his eyes back and they stare like monkeys for a second.

“Then he said, ‘I’m hot, right? Like for a dude?’” Her Scott impression has gotten so pitch perfect that Stiles splutters out an entire mouthful of whiskey, he’s laughing so hard.

“Allison Argent,” he cries, “please don’t tell me you’re trying to convince me that Scott had a crush on me.”

“Well, we made out for like two hours after that,” she shrugs, “so, not exactly. More like he was–”

“If the next word you say is ‘curious,’ I’m dumping this bottle over your head.” Stiles waves the bottle demonstratively and she snatches it out of his hands. What Drunk Allison lacks in cunning, she makes up for in catlike agility.

“Like you never wondered,” she says, taking a swig straight from the bottle even though her tumbler is still full.

“I was sixteen and surrounded by superhumanly beautiful shirtless people,” Stiles answers. “I wondered about literally everything.”

After awhile they decide Allison and Scott’s good whiskey is wasted on their impaired palettes, and they elect to cool down for the night. Which is code for putting the nice liquor away and drinking a glass of water each before delving into the cheap stuff Stiles brought.

It’s become a routine, the two of them and whiskey. Well, there’s not always whiskey, but it’s always the two of them. It started as a way to deal when their more sideburn-inclined boyfriends heard the call to go do their furry thing, negotiating with nearby packs or hunting for creatures of the night that they didn’t need or couldn’t have backup for. But eventually it just became _nice_ , a break from romance and pack and a space for bro time. Allison, Stiles has learned, is a total bro.

Plus, although Stiles won’t admit this to anyone, it’s a great distraction when he gets anxious over shit. Even though tonight should be simple, just Derek helping two new-to-the-area packs establish territory lines, the Beacon Hills crew knows better than anyone how quickly things can go south. The fact that Derek brought Scott for backup has Stiles on edge. Because yeah, Derek has a tendency to imagine the worst case scenario and then prep for something two times more dire– but a lot of times things still end up being worse than what he was equipped to handle. Plus, Stiles is pretty proficient at imagining worst case scenarios himself.

He also knows that half of why Derek dragged Scott along was because Stiles had been complaining that they’re not still acting as a team, though, so Stiles goes back and forth about beating himself up over being nervous, and– it’s a bad cycle. Hanging with Allison keeps him out of his head.

They spend another hour laughing and talking and shoving each other and, coincidentally, spilling whiskey everywhere. Eventually Allison makes noise about changing into pajamas or something; Stiles sees he has no option but to stop her bodily, which results in some clumsy half-wrestling. Allison cheats– the only possible way she could know his ticklish spots is from Scott, the traitor. When the check-in time Derek gave them rolls around, Stiles is still sprawled across Allison’s lap. He’s trying to prove to her that he can drink without sitting up when his phone buzzes.

_Everything ok. See u soon_

It’s from Scott, exactly at 11:45 PM, just like Derek promised. Allison is punching in a reply on her own phone, corner of her lip tucked between her teeth in an adorably smitten expression.

“He remembered, oh my god,” Stiles says, gesturing his amazement in broad strokes. Allison rescues his tumbler from being spilled (again) without looking up from her phone.

“Derek never remembers,” Stiles continues, staring at Allison. He’s not sure she understands what a big deal this is, because she’s still looking at her cell. He bats at her hand and she meets his eyes. “Derek always texts me ten minutes after the check-in time, or he just forgets and I have to call him and I have to worry.” Allison mimics his pout, which makes Stiles realize he’s pouting. Whatever, this is pout-worthy. “I don’t want worry lines, Allison.”

“Scott’s very thoughtful,” she replies, which Stiles thinks is a change of topic for second before he remembers that Scott texted _at the check-in time_.

“He is,” Stiles agrees. “Thoughtful and adorable. I could kiss his stupid puppy face.”

“You should,” Allison giggles. And then she makes a considering face, which is why Stiles blames her for the entire rest of the night.

It’s not long before Derek and Scott are bursting through the front door, bickering cheerfully about who was more crucial to their victory in the fight that broke out–

“There was a fight?” Allison cries, dislodging Stiles as she shoots to her feet. “You said there would be no fighting!”

“It was barely a skirmish, nothing happened,” Scott replies, rushing to her side. Derek does not rush to help Stiles up. He’s still standing in the hall, staring at Stiles from under his eyebrows.

“I could’ve come, I could’ve brought my new crossbow,” Allison is murmuring, and Scott is arguing that an Argent with a weapon only would’ve raised tensions.

“It smells like it rained liquor in here,” Derek says. Stiles stumbles to his feet. It seems like Scott actually wasn’t minimizing the fight: his sleeve is ripped, and Derek’s jeans are torn up around the knees– but Derek wears his jeans so tight they tear when he sweeps the kitchen, so that’s not a big deal. Stiles has gotten pretty good at gauging how much violence went down based on the amount of blood visible, and from the minimal fleckage, he’s guessing Derek and Scott took care of things quickly.

Allison and Scott are still talking over each other, but Allison’s giggling and Scott’s grinning, so they’re probably not disagreeing anymore. Stiles grabs Derek’s arm and hauls him into the living room. Derek lets himself be hauled and drops down heavily into an armchair.

“Like there was a flash flood of whiskey,” he tells Stiles seriously.

“Maybe if you would text me at the check-in time I wouldn’t be driven to drink,” Stiles answers primly. It takes him a second to realize Allison and Scott aren’t talking anymore and now Allison is giggling at him.

“That’s right, Stiles loves your puppy face because it texts on time,” she tells Scott, hand resting helpfully on the aforementioned face. Scott beams down at her with the joy of a thousand beaming suns, and he doesn’t even look condescending about Allison’s drunkenness, because she and Scott are a catalog couple from like, Pottery Barn or something. Derek, meanwhile, is quietly exasperated and definitely not from a catalog. Maybe he could model for one.

“It’s physiologically impossible not to love Scott’s face,” Stiles argues.

“Should I be jealous?” Derek asks, directing the question at Scott.

“Hey, dude, maybe he should be jealous,” Scott says. Allison grins up at him, pulls his arm around her waist. “The way we fought tonight,” he says to her, “real synergy.”

“Yeah?” she asks.

“It’s true, we’re really in sync lately,” Derek says, looking back to Stiles, and Stiles can’t help it: Derek is so cute when he wants Stiles to be proud of him.

“You really are from Pottery Barn,” he says, climbing into Derek’s lap and kissing his giant caveman eyebrows.

“Oh my god, when will you two ever get that room,” Scott groans, rolling his eyes in that way that requires his whole head.

“Aw, Scotty, you know you love it,” Stiles replies, and Derek ignores the teasing altogether and launches into a report about the negotiations. It’s all very typical, which is why Stiles doesn’t see anything coming. False sense of security.

Stiles maybe tunes out a little once it’s obvious where the story is going, leaning into Derek and letting his voice vibrate through his chest and picturing how flippy Derek is in a fight. And okay, maybe imagining some other applications for Derek’s acrobatic tendencies, because Stiles has never thought to apply ‘flippy’ to their repertoire before.

When Derek wraps up his narrative of the night, Stiles looks up just in time to see a flash of Allison’s mischief face before her features smooth back to neutral. He realizes then– way too late– the mistake he’s made in not keeping an eye on her.

Scott is perked up the way he gets sometimes when he’s smelling or hearing something with his werewolf senses– ‘Canine Intrigue’– and Derek’s arms are tightening reflexively around Stiles’ hips and Stiles has _no idea what’s going on_. He’d love to blame it on the whiskey, but he’s totally sobering up.

Stiles turns to Scott imploringly, but he’s too busy making Significant Eye Contact with Derek for Stiles to get his attention.

Voice weirdly anticipating, Scott asks what Stiles and Allison did while they were gone. Stiles momentarily forgets about the weirdness while he cries, “You told!”

Scott’s brow furrows. Allison says “kneecaps” in a contrite voice, and Scott starts to not-apologize for divulging Stiles’ ticklish spots when she interrupts him.

“Actually, I have a confession to make, too,” she says, and oh, there’s the weirdness again. It’s not bad weirdness, exactly. In fact, whatever it is, it’s making Derek run his hands possessively over Stiles’ back, so maybe it’s okay in Stiles’ book.

“I told him about your bicurious phase,” she says, looking up at Scott through her eyelashes. Stiles breaks into startled laughter, and to his surprise, Derek is the one to challenge him on it.

“That’s funny?”

“It wasn’t a _bicurious phase_ , oh my god, Allison,” Stiles says. “It was a phase of Scott having curiosity about my bisexuality, that’s a totally different thing.”

“You sure about that?” Derek says, and he’s starting to smirk, which is never good news for Stiles. He looks up at Scott. Who is spreading his hands like he’s trying to prove he’s unarmed, because _what?_

Stiles’ brain goes offline while Scott denies-but-doesn’t his fleeting post-Allison interest in Stiles’ lips and hands, and Allison adds helpful details like they’re recounting a funny couples’ vacation story. Scott keeps sneaking looks at Derek, like he’s worried Derek’s gonna leap at him for checking out his boyfriend. But Derek just agrees matter-of-factly; _yes, Stiles is irresistible to straight men, water is wet._ His eyes keep tracking down to Stiles’ face, so Stiles knows Derek’s mostly playing along to get him blushing, but the keyword there is 'mostly.'

“Didn’t you once–” Allison starts, and Stiles knows exactly what story she’s going to tell, and that’s– no. No. “No,” he interrupts.

Scott’s head shoots up, eyes wide, so he knows where she was going, too. Allison waves her hands dismissively, a 'forget I said anything' gesture– as if Stiles is ever going to forget– and then she stands.

“Wow, I’m beat,” she says, and she’s acting totally natural, but Scott and Derek are not nearly as subtle and Stiles knows there’s subtext going way over his head here. “Sorry, guys, but I’m gonna go grab my PJs.” She flashes Scott a Significant Glance before disappearing upstairs.

“Just curious,” Stiles says, watching her disappearing back. “Why are you all so scary?”

“Why are you hiding something?” Derek counters, but his voice is totally teasing and fond. That’s not Derek’s genuinely unhappy face. Stiles can read variations of unhappy in Derek like one of those art freaks who knows eighty-eight different names for the same shade of blue.

“Stiles, it’s not a big deal, you can tell him.” Scott is grinning like a giant dope, because he warmed up to Derek’s constant teasing when he realized that it meant he had a trolling-Stiles-ally whenever he wanted.

“Oh my god,” Stiles answers. “It’s not a big deal because it’s not a deal at all. It’s firmly on the side of no deal. It never happened!”

“It was when that coven showed up at Stiles’ campus,” Scott starts, sliding down the sofa until he’s right next to Stiles and Derek. He leans in like he’s about to tell a campfire story. Stiles considers just yelling until everyone shuts up, but he used that once on a group of omegas and it’ll probably never work again.

Derek feigns rapt attention through the whole thing, although he does snort when Scott says, “And we were in a gay club; it’s not like I could kiss Allison!”

Which is how Derek learns about Stiles and Scott’s one-night foray into Fake Boyfriend territory.

“Wait, this was the thing with the coven,” Derek says at the end of the story. “Weren’t you dating that– the girl with the eyes?”

“Erin,” Stiles concedes. “I still thought she was human; I wasn’t about to bring her on a literal witch hunt.”

“But you told her about you and Scott,” Derek says, which makes no sense.

“Told her what? It was nothing,” Stiles argues. He knows Derek is just riling him up but he’s completely unable to resist because everyone is working against him, it’s a conspiracy. “It’s not like I knew Scott secretly wanted in my pants! That was an as-of-tonight revelation!”

Derek’s posture shifts, and suddenly he’s looming even though Stiles is still in his lap.

“So how often do you make out with people and count it as nothing because you don’t know if they want in your pants?”

It’s a conspiracy of Loch Ness proportions.

Scott puts a hand on Derek’s knee. “Don’t blame him. You know how these things go.”

God, Scott’s poker face is terrible. He’s barely holding back a full-on grin. Stiles knows this. Stiles knows they are just messing with him and he is totally calm.

Derek nods. “Danger at every turn, adrenaline high, working side-by-side with– well.” He looks up at Scott through his eyelashes. “Yeah, I get it.”

They’re completely transparent. Stiles, ridiculously, is hit with a rush of jealousy anyway. Jealousy exclusively, combined with no other feelings. Derek glances his way, obviously scenting everything, and grins his assholiest grin before surging forward and kissing Scott.

Kissing Scott.

Derek.

Stiles looks to the heavens for counsel and instead sees Allison, standing halfway up the stairs in a slinky nightgown and a self-satisfied grin. She winks at him.

-

Stiles wakes up covered in tiny bruises, staring at Derek who’s wearing his grumpy-but-secretly-adoring expression, with Allison pressed against his back. Her hair tickles his neck when she squirms in her sleep.

“I take it back,” Stiles says weakly. He puts his palm on Derek’s stupid adoring face, shoves him into the mattress. “You and Scott should never work as a team, ever.”

Stiles rolls over to find Scott propped on his elbow behind Allison. He busts out Canine Scholar in all its glory, brow furrowing in puzzlement.

“That’s not what you said last night,” Scott says innocently.

Allison wakes foggy but laughing when Stiles tries to smother Scott with a pillow.


End file.
